


The Thinning Line

by dragonofheaven07



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:49:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofheaven07/pseuds/dragonofheaven07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bruce tells me to stay away from him, that he has lost anything resembling a moral code. That he cannot be trusted. That he has lost his ability to love…” Abused!Dick, Sadist!Jason</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thinning Line

We only meet in my apartment. He wants to keep our little tryst from prying eyes. Anywhere else, we are enemies. He sees me in the daylight, he doesn’t know me, I am nothing. I see him as Red Hood, and I am less than nothing. He never stays in one place too long, anyway. He comes and goes as he pleases through my door without warning. I will come home at three in the morning to find him sprawled on my floor, flipping television channels while polishing his gun. He doesn’t even look up. “Hey, Dickie-Bird,” he says. “Rough night?” 

-

The only picture I have of him is from simpler times. It’s a group photo of our little family, Bruce and Barbara and him and me. I stand confident and proud in my old high-collar costume. My hands are on his shoulders. I can’t believe he was ever that small. He is trying to mimic Bruce’s expression of stone cold intimidation. He pulls it off better than expected. He wears my hand-me-downs: the cape, the shirt. Those pixie shoes were mine, too. They clash horribly with his serious demeanor. I wish I could tell him how cute he looked in them. The photo is framed on my coffee table. I notice him eyeing at it as he sits cross-legged on my couch. When I return from the kitchen with our drinks, the picture has been flipped face down.

-

He rarely kisses. Never, ever in public, always under my roof. He needs to initiate. The one time I tried to kiss him, he broke my nose in three places. He didn’t talk to me for a week. When he does kiss me, it is anything but gentle. It is rugged, dominating, sharp. His entire being. His tongue moves too wildly as it pushes down my throat. His lips devour me, forcing me to keep up the rapid pace. His teeth have a habit of latching onto my bottom lip. They linger too long and blood starts to flow. He sucks at the bite mark with a Cheshire Cat grin, and then reattaches his mouth to mine. I spit red when he is finished.

-

“C’mon, let’s do it,” he says nonchalantly. He leads me to my bedroom. “You know what to do.” He sits on my bed, legs spread open. His pants zipper slides down. He says, “On your knees.” And I obey. I close my eyes and take him into my mouth.

-

“Here,” he caresses my left temple. “Here’s where the Joker hit me that caused my concussion.” I lean into his palm as I swirl my tongue around the tip of his cock. He thumbs over the edges of my mask, feeling the contrast between plastic and bare skin. He wants me to keep it on. He likes to be reminded that he’s fucking a former Robin. 

-

He wipes come from my cheek. His come. He says, “You’re my bitch, Grayson, and you always will be.” He tells me, “This is why I’m better than you.” He tells me, “This is why I’ll always be better than you.”

-

Gentleness seems not to be in his nature, a foreign concept. When he takes off my clothes, he rips the fabric and buttons fly. He presses his hands down my neck, down my chest, my stomach. He traces the lines of my abdominals. “You really are magnificent,” he tells me. “A man would kill to have your body.” He rubs me through my boxers in short quick bursts. “Such a beautiful little soldier for the Bat.”

-

“You’re growing it long again.” He twists a lock of my hair between nimble fingers. He smirks, “Almost like a girl’s.” 

-

When we fuck, he seems to favor doggy-style. He pushes my head into the springs of the mattress, unconcerned whether or not I can breathe. He towers above me and pounds. His nails dig holes into my hips as he braces his full weight against me, then retracts. I grip fistfuls of the sheets as I am rocked. Back and forth. Ad infinitum. My breath suddenly hitches when he slowly strokes a lone finger across my cock. I shudder at his touch. “Does this get you hard, Dick?” he purrs into the ridges of my back. He chuckles at his own joke. 

-

He has to show it, that he is a man. He is on top. He is superior, to me, to Bruce. To everyone. He kicked Death in the face and lived to laugh about it. He has enough intelligence and willpower to take out or take over a small country. He could kill me in the time it takes to stress the first syllable of his name. Bruce tells me to stay away from him, that he has lost anything resembling a moral code. That he cannot be trusted. That he has lost his ability to love.

-

Sometimes he joins me in the shower afterwards. He steps into the small space next to me and rinses himself in the warm water. I smile as I hand him the soap, and he takes it from me. His eyes drift to a bruise on my shoulder the Red Hood inflicted the other day. He stares at the white-tiled walls until I tug back the curtain to dry off.

-

He hits a pleasurable spot and I cover my mouth to suppress a scream. “Why so quiet?” he asks. “I want to hear your pretty voice.” He rams it again, much much harder. He says, “Little birds are supposed to sing.”

-

I can tell when he’s nearing climax. He turns me around into missionary, slamming me on my back and yanking my legs apart. He pins my wrists on either side of my head, my elbows bent. Then he carefully peels back my mask. “I want to see everything,” he pants. “I want to see you.” And, for a brief moment, he lets me hug his neck as my body tenses, pulling us together to create a single heartbeat. I whisper his name in his ear, feverishly, over and over.

“Jason, Jason, Jason, Jason…”

Until he comes, too. He crashes on top of me. He lies there, inhaling, exhaling, unable to do anything else. I bury my face in the cool darkness of his hair and take in the sounds of his body. The smell of gun residue and bread yeast. I wait until his face is peaceful to snuggle closer to him and drape the sheets over us. I hold him and dream of those simpler times.

-

I never wake up with him beside me. Usually he exits the very night. He doesn’t want to disturb me. On lucky mornings, I watch him straighten his jacket or lace his boots from the bed. He pretends not to notice. On very lucky mornings, he will be in my kitchen, reading the newspaper and sipping black coffee. I put on my bathrobe and we make chit-chat about what Scarecrow is up to or if Two-Face is still at large, until he leaves.

-

He may not speak it. He may debate it. He may not like it.

But there is love in him.


End file.
